


Plastecine Soldiers & Lifelong Companions

by Iambic



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Multi, Rating May Change, Small Fic Collection, Trespasser Spoilers in Chapter 14
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes from several Inquisitions, Blights, and the people caught up in them. (The majority being Bull/Dorian, because I am a very dedicated shipper)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kara Lavellan & Dorian Pavus

**Author's Note:**

> I too have fallen to the prompted fic via Tumblr disease. I debated posting them separately to avoid Character Tag Hell, but I think I'll just label the chapters accordingly. If you find this irritating, please let me know! 
> 
> If you've a mind to leave your own prompt (with the caveat that I do not guarantee an immediate or any response) you can find my fic-writing blog at [shep-harder @ tumblr](http://shep-harder.tumblr.com).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian receives another letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A preamble to this fake dating monstrosity I've been working on since, um, December.

Kara finds him pacing on the ramparts, sleeves unbuckled from shirt, with the letter in his hand. It’s a beautiful day, though still cold, but Dorian has grown disgustingly pale all winter and he will not be denied his natural glow a moment longer than he must. His reward for his suffering will take the form of a warm bath and hot wine. Perhaps more than one; it’s been that kind of day. And still the sun has the gall to shine down upon him.

“Dorian,” Kara says in greeting, but frowning. Sometimes she comes suspiciously close to reading his mind, and in anyone else he might suspect blood magic. But no, Kara simply knows him too damnably well. “Is that a letter?”

“It was, until I destroyed it,” Dorian replies.

“You crumpled it up.” Kara, delight that she is notwithstanding, finds far too much pleasure in prodding him with technicalities. “It’s still completely readable.” Her frown deepens into concern. Bad sign. “Is this another letter from your father?”

Dorian sighs. Of all the beautiful days to ruin, it had to be today, mild enough by the southern standards that he has somehow become accustomed to, clear enough to see for miles. The snow has begun to melt. The dull brown birds are _singing_. “He has given up on his letter campaign. He now wishes to do so directly, under pretense of giving the Inquisition his official support. Extremely resourceful, of course. How could we decline?”

“Dorian…”

The worst part of the matter is that Kara  _would_  refuse his father if Dorian requested it. After all, she had thrown away an alliance with Par Vollen for the sake of the Bull and his chargers, and one magister’s official support could not hold a candle to that scale of sacrifice. “It’s all right,” he says, and he means it. “I can stomach my father’s presence for a week if it means another voice swaying Tevinter toward a formal statement on the matter.”


	2. Dorian Pavus/The Iron Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozkud Adaar is way too enthusiastic, and the Iron Bull is a complete ham.

Ozkud, beloved Inquisitor despite how infrequently he has any idea what he’s doing, stares out into the dim light of the uncivilised man’s morning. There are: sand dunes. Rocks. More sand dunes.

Look for firelight, Harding had suggested, but Dorian’s utterly common eyesight gives him nothing but sand. “I suspect our scout was onto something,” Dorian says, cross but fully within reason. The sand has begun creeping under his robes. Any moment now it will launch an invasion into his boots. His hair, of course, is a lost cause. “All I’m seeing is space.”

“A hunt it is!” Ozkud as usual is far too excited about getting completely lost in uninhabitable wasteland. Cassandra, who loves and supports him in all things, sighs heavily. 

Of course, when Dorian glances over, the Bull looks entirely unfazed. As they begin their descent into the desert void, he taps Dorian on the shoulder, and now he’s got this alarming shit-eating grin. “All this space…”

“Whatever you’re about to say, it’s not happening,” Dorian warns, scowling.

“All this space, and you’re still the heart of my universe.”

The ultimate betrayal: Dorian’s heart performs an exaggerated flip. It doesn’t stop Dorian from shoving at this ridiculous man he has made the unfortunate mistake of falling in love with.


	3. Dorian Pavus & the Chargers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What no one knew: by Tevinter standards, Dorian is a _huge frump_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some pretty obvious Bull/Dorian in this one, in case you're the sort who likes to be warned for that.
> 
> I would also like to state, for the record, that while this was a delight to write I in no way subscribe to this notion.

“You know, Pavus, I always wanted to ask,” says Krem, which is usually a sign that Dorian will not like the question at all. Thus is the price of the Chargers’ approval, though, and he would very much like to maintain that now he’s finally won admission.

Dalish starts grinning, which is an even worse omen. Krem’s got a completely straight face, which simply has to be for show; Krem never looks that serious outside of business. “I saw some altus fashion my time, and it’s  _nothing_  like what you wear.”

“It’s entirely unsuited to both the climate and combat here in the South.” It is only with the greatest restraint that Dorian does not snap; as is, he’s far more hostile than the question might warrant. He very pointedly looks around at the Chargers, his ale, the paneled wall lit up with firelight, and he does  _not_ think about the sheer leggings his peers had all taken up, back in several of the Circles he had been shuffled along to.

Krem rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but you leave your arm out.”

“And your tit,” Dalish supplies, helpful as always.

“Where’s the see-through shirts?”

“Why’s there leather under those chaps?”

Rocky, Skinner, and Stitches were all laughing loudly at this point, and even Grim had a less… grim expression than usual. Dorian absolutely does not turn his head to see if Bull’s still at the bar.

“If you must know,” he says, resigned to his fate, “I actually value practicality and comfort over fashion.”

A moment passes where all his drinking companions stare dumbly at him – Dalish’s mouth is actually hanging open. Stitches is the one who breaks the silence, though, as his eyes crease again and he lets out a wild laugh, and opens the floodgates. Rocky slaps his knee as if he cannot conceive of how to stop, Dalish is actually weeping, and Skinner bends over double.

This is of course when Bull comes back with the next round. He takes in the whole scene, Dorian sitting with what must undoubtedly be a long-suffering mien indeed, while the rest group simply lose their collective shit.

“All right, all right, who’s gonna let me in on the joke?” says Bull, setting the tray of mugs down and draping his free arm around Dorian’s shoulder. He runs the side of his hand up the side of Dorian’s  _perfectly modest_ exposed pectoral and Dorian, with great intent, does not shiver.

Stitches collects himself when Krem cannot, and wipes his eyes clear. “Krem was saying, Dorian doesn’t dress like your average altus, so he asked why, and Dorian said–” another laugh escapes his throat, and he has to stop to cover his mouth for a second. “He says he’s a prude!”

This starts another fit of laughter, and even Bull, the traitor, joins in. “Now, I wouldn’t say  _that_ , boys – girls, you too – but I’ll tell you, I’ve seen more than my share of naked ‘Vint legs in my time.”

“You knew,” says Dorian, and cannot even find it within himself to make it an accusation. “Of course you knew.”

“Hey, never said I didn’t like it.” And now the Bull leers at him, and a chorus of groans emanate from all other sides of circle of chairs. “Leaves more to the imagination. Always fun, opening a package.”

“Keep it in your  _pants_ ,” Krem grumbles. All things considered, though, Dorian is fully prepared to ensure the opposite happens instead.


	4. The Iron Bull, Olga Cadash, & Solas, et all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The parallel universe facial hair gag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, incidental Bull/Dorian, though you can read it as one-way attraction if you must.

When the rift opens no demons materialise – instead, four figures fall out and hit the ground with various levels of competence in landing. Olga waves the rest of the party back; no reason attacking before they see the outcome of this development. The first figure, an elf by the look of him, staggers to his feet.

He looks somehow familiar, but it takes the Bull a moment to recognise Solas behind his very respectable goatee. It can’t possibly be real, everyone knows elves don’t grow beards. But then, this isn’t the Solas they know at all – not his posture, not his expression, and definitely not his tight-clinging, fur-lined leggings. No way to know if that ass is the same, but if it is, that elf back home is suddenly a  _lot_  more interesting.

“Maker’s hairy ballsac,” Olga yelps. It’s even odds that she’s horrified by this strange alternate Solas, or just mad that he’s a fuller beard than she does.

“It appears,” this Solas says, “that we have left our plain of existence. That is clearly not our Inquisitor.”

“That much is obvious,” says a Cassandra also sporting a mustache, though hers droops.

The third the Bull’s never seen before, a dwarf with red hair and wide eyes, equally-red full beard, and a series of burn scars across her face, bare shoulders, and forearms. She narrows her eyes, reaches behind her for–

Holy crap, the Bull thinks, that’s Bianca.

The fourth party member takes the longest to rise, and the Bull already has a suspicion as to his identity given the shape of his robes and the staff he uses to lift himself to his feet. He wonders, will this Dorian have a long full beard like Bianca’s wielder? Will it at least have sideburns? The Bull could get into sideburns. The Bull could  _definitely_ get into two Dorians at once.

Well, possibly in rapid succession.

But when he raises his face, the Bull has to gape. Dorian’s clean-shaven, looking way younger than his years. There’s a scar across his face that just avoids his right eye, several jewels in his ears, and the spikes on his robes just  _scream_  magister. There’s something red about his eyes. Maybe the Bull will skip on double the Dorian after all.

“You’re gonna re-open that rift business, right?” asks Sera, eyeing these strangers with familiar faces.

“What do you take me for?” Olga looks frankly insulted. “Give me a fucking minute to get over Solas with a beard.”

“And Dorian without a mustache.”

“Wait,” Blackwall says from behind, “that’s  _Dorian_?”


	5. Kierin Mahariel/Theron Mahariel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kierin is absolutely terrible at feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a slight chance you may recognise these characters from [indevan's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/indevan%22) epic, [A Matter of Trust](http://archiveofourown.org/works/706316). Don't worry; Kierin's adopted.

Revelations are  _supposed_  to happen during significant moments, with dramatic lighting and silence in the air. Something to make his own thoughts less ridiculous in comparison. But nothing in Kierin’s life has ever happened the way it was supposed to. Not his lie to join the Dalish, not the way Ashalle had taken him in or Theron’s friendship and brotherhood. Not the mirror that killed Tamlen, nor the Taint, nor Duncan’s solution. Not Ostagar. And now–

It’s morning, not even too early, and they’re packing up their camp to move east toward Orzammar. The sun keeps glinting off Alistair’s armor and getting in Kierin’s eyes, giving him a headache. Theron’s sitting on a log while Kierin finishes packing up their tents and belongings, braiding his hair, and Kierin looks over at him to protect his eyes from Alistair’s armor, and–

Well, Theron’s always beautiful, but this morning he’s disheveled, face still creased up from shoving it into his pillow, hands grimy from taking down the camp, eyebrows pressed together in annoyance, probably at the tangled mess of his hair. Theron is a mess. It makes him look ordinary and makes Kierin’s lips twitch in a smile and then the bottom of his stomach drops out and a light almost too hot to bear fills his lungs. He drops the tent pole he was tying in place.

_Elger’nan_ , he thinks, horrified at his clumsy fingers and his clumsier heart,  _I must be in love_.


	6. Cassandra Pentaghast/Josephine Montilyet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cheiloproclitic: fascinated with another's lips.

Staring at Cassandra Pentaghast’s mouth in the middle of a very serious meeting is most likely a very unseemly activity, and inappropriate to boot. No one has called her on it, though, so Josephine persists. Oh, she looks to whoever speaks and makes the eye contact a discussion requires, for she is after all an experienced diplomat and has withstood much greater distractions than the lips of a Seeker. But her gaze does continue wandering back.

In Orlais, fashion favours Leliana’s plump and pouting lower lip, and the Montilyet mouth, soft but wicked, has ever been popular back in Rialto. The form of Cassandra’s lips follows the structure of her speech: concise, sharp, but tender all the same. Tense, they could cut. Relaxed, they must soothe.

Kissing Cassandra surely would vary with the atmosphere. In the midst of the workday, or during preparation for some undertaking, she would be firm and precise; in the heat of the moment she might grow passionate, lose some control, might crush Josephine to her without care for propriety. In the morning early she might be pliable. Josephine plays it out in her head alarmingly often, running one dry hand against the scarred edge of Cassandra’s jaw, leaning down to kiss the fog of sleep away.


	7. The Iron Bull & Dorian Pavus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Capernoited: slightly intoxicated or tipsy

“I think,” says the Bull, steadying his mug of ale on the the table when Dorian sets his own down a little too decisively, “we should have stopped drinking by now.”

Dorian looks down to his hand on the table, then around the room, and then finally to the Bull’s face. His brow furrows, lips thin, almost overexaggerated. “Possibly,” he allows, “but then, you’ve your famous Iron Gut–”

“That what they’re calling it these days?”

“–and I my hard-won tolerance for pain, if you will let me finish!” 

They both eye each other’s mugs, still nearer to full than to empty, although the Bull’s got a head start. Dorian’s pain tolerance never seems to prevent him from complaining nonstop about every annoyance he encounters. Actually, it’d be a lot more useful if Dorian  _did_  complain when something hurt. Or at least let someone know, if he’s the kind of person who’s into pain.

…Dorian’s almost definitely the kind of person who’s into pain.

The Bull shakes his head, snorts a laugh, and takes another drink.


	8. Meraas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cagamosis: an unhappy marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took great liberties with the prompt.

Meraas contemplates.

It is not his role. It is not even his business. The Karashok of his unit rolled their eyes at him, back under the Qun, and the Arvaraad ribbed him. “A stone,” he said one evening, before Kirkwall, “always so still and quiet. What are you even thinking about?” 

He never really struggled under the Qun. Having direction suited him. The consistency of rise, train, study, and return gave order to his days, and their routine missions abroad gave him variety and food for thought. In the liminal hours between tasks he painted the insides of his armor in improperly prepared vitaar, requisitioned from the craftspeople assigned to his barracks, and he contemplated.

Meraas once thought about the ending of lives, and then the futility of conquering a world only to continue struggling with its inhabitants. What use, to dictate the lives of these bas? They live their chaotic lives and die as all things do. The people endure while the individuals begin and end. Perhaps he thought too much. Finding futility in one aspect of the Qun called the purpose of it all into question. If flawed, what use is there in promoting it above all other ways? It was for this rather than the chafing of his fellows that he followed them from the Qun.

He watches in taverns now, in dark streets and open roads. He speaks now, slow and precise. Others, untouched by the Qun, even respond. 

It is, for all intents and purposes, not so dissimilar.


	9. The Iron Bull & Dorian Pavus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petrichor: the smell of earth after rain.

The Iron Bull loves a good storm, and the one just past more than satisfied. Thunder still rumbles in the distance, and with it a dragon somewhere, he knows. They’ll find it one of these days, but for now the weather’ll do. 

At the front of their party, the boss has a spring in her step; the novelty of surface weather apparently hasn’t worn off yet, and Cole trailing along behind her, dry as a bone. Behind the Bull, Dorian’s grousing has trailed off into silence. Now there’s a novelty. But the boss stops and turns around after a minute or so, frowning.

“Dorian,” she calls, over the constant sound of the waves. “You doing okay?”

The Bull looks back, but Dorian doesn’t look to be in any distress. The contrary, actually – his face and shoulders have relaxed, even in the face of his sodden robes and ruined hair. He’s actually smiling a little. After a moment he blinks and peers across the rest of the party still watching him.

“Certainly,” he says. “I’m not holding us up, am I?”

It’s all pretty strange. For one thing, the cold and the wet should have him wound up and loudly complaining, and then there’s the fact that Dorian  _never_  looks this relaxed. When the Bull catches him in his research he’s always frowning or excitable, and in the field he’s usually on edge, spitting fire. They’ve taken to drinking together at Skyhold some nights, but even then Dorian doesn’t lose that sharpness. It makes him a good conversationalist, but the Bull’s wondering if Dorian ever unwinds.

“You’re content.” A glance back at Cole: he always has the same expression, but he’s rocking back on his heels which almost definitely means he’s pleased. “I don’t hear anything at all.”

“Thank the Maker for small favors.” The Bull snorts, turning back, and Dorian rolls his eyes. “What, were you hoping for another tour through my inner thoughts? I suppose you’ll have to buy me a drink for them, like everyone else.”

“Dorian, I don’t think anyone could keep you from sharing your thoughts if they tried,” the boss says, teasing, and Dorian rolls his eyes again, the other direction this time, the showboat. Then he doesn’t say anything for a while, just half shuts his eyes and turns his face up to the wind. 

For someone other than Dorian, it’s a glorious kind of day. The Storm Coast has that stark and dramatic atmosphere that adds just that bit of solemnity to everything, and while it saps the humour out of the back-and-forth banter, it does add that extra thrill to each scuffle they find themselves in. But this still doesn’t explain the appeal to Dorian.

“I suppose,” Dorian says after a time. “It’s that smell that gets me. Earth after rain. Reminds me a bit of home. I gardened a bit, as a boy, you know.”

“I can give you a corner of the garden, if you want. Although somehow I can’t see you messing around in the dirt,” the boss replies, but the Bull can. Dorian must have been a gangly kid, knees and elbows everywhere, and he’d probably have pat the soil even after every rainfall. Wouldn’t have kept the plants fastidiously trimmed though; he’d have wanted them to run wild. The Bull thinks he might have worn that same unguarded expression he’s got now.

Dorian smiles with it, slow and easy. “I’d like that,” he replies. 


	10. Female Hawke/Isabela

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unresolved arguments and angry makeouts.

They disembark far too early in the morning to even call it that, and when Isabela lets herself down from the boat, the first thing on her agenda — well, the first thing she does is shove Fenris into the Hanged Man, and sure, a drink, don’t mind if I do — but the first thing after _that_ has her marching all the way to Hightown in the rage she’d nursed since that disaster in _Rialto_ of all places, what was that woman _thinking_ —

The door’s locked, of course, because it’s not even really morning, but now Isabela can’t kick it open like she’s planned. She climbs up the ivy and lets herself in through the second story landing window, not even close to dramatic enough, but maybe it’ll still get Hawke awake from her twitchy sleep. It’s not nearly as effective if Isabela has to wake her up with her big entrance.

After a moment’s glaring consideration, Isabela shuts and locks the window behind her, because even if she’s pissed off at Hawke, she has to sleep here too.

With a running start, Isabela slams the bottom of her foot into the bedroom door. The light’s on inside as she carries forward with her momentum. Hawke clearly already awake, still tenses and fumbles for the knife under her pillow before recognising Isabela. She doesn’t smile though, which is only right, because—

“You _knew_!” Isabela yells, jumping onto the bed to grab Hawke by — no shirt there, because Hawke sleeps naked — the hair, and yank her forward. “You rank bitch, you knew, and you didn’t even tell me!”

Hawke sighs. “You had to be there to cut off those informants. If I could’ve, I would’ve waited until he was gone—”

“You could have fucking warned me!”

“And then what?” At least Hawke’s getting angry, so when Isabela actually does slap her, she won’t pull that whole patient acceptance routine. “We both know you’d have been distracted, if you didn’t just go after him in the first place! The mission was more important than going after some shit you kicked out of your life years ago!”

Isabela does slap her then, hard enough to leave an red hand-shaped imprint behind. “Why don’t you just come out and say you don’t fucking trust me? Because obviously you don’t, if you have to leave something _so important to me_ out of the report you gave me? Why even keep me around if you can’t—”

Both of Hawke’s hands grab Isabela by the base of the skull to shove their mouths together, smashing Isabela’s nose against the side of her mouth before Isabela can get it out of the way, that fucking _hurt_ , Hawke. She bites Hawke’s lip, hard, and Hawke either moans in pain or desire, but it doesn’t matter a bit which. Hawke digs her nails in; Isabela pulls sharper at her hair. Hawke’s bigger, but Isabela has leverage on her side, and she slams Hawke against the headboard. “I hate you,” she spits, pulling Hawke’s face to the side to break the kiss and drag her teeth down Hawke’s bared neck. “You _bitch_. I hate you, and you’re going to fuck me right now, and you’re going to get me off at _least_ five times before I even think about returning the favour.”

Hawke scratches down Isabela’s back, and fuck but her nails are _sharp,_ but the moan she’s making now definitely isn’t just from the pain. Welcome the fuck home, Isabela.

 

 


	11. Dorian Pavus/The Iron Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian grits his teeth; the Bull isn't gonna let him bear it.

To and fro across the Bull’s room paces Dorian, scowling. Rubbing his hands through it too often left a mess, and it says a lot that he hasn’t even seemed to notice, just keeps pacing, making the occasional frustrated sound or huff. Sometimes he gets like this. And woe betide anyone who makes the mistake of cutting in or, an even greater offense, asking him what’s wrong.

Still, at this rate he’s gonna wear through the floor, and then next time they fuck they might smash through all the way it as opposed to just the bed. The luckless soldiers bunking below them already suffer enough as is.

“Hey,” the Bull says, grabbing Dorian by the shoulder as he passes by. “Wanna talk about it instead of polishing the floorboards?”

“I’d prefer to go set something on fire,” Dorian snaps. He jerks out of the Bull’s grip, but only to spin around so they’re face-to-face. Hey, progress. “ _Fenhedis_ , next time someone tells me to cool down I am setting some _one_  on fire instead.”

Saying something reassuring at this point won’t help, so the Bull just holds out his hand within reach, until Dorian sighs and leans into it. “Hey,” says the Bull, again.

Dorian pushes his hand through the longer hair atop his head, but it’s a brusque kind of motion, no defeat in it. A wordless offer: the Bull pinches the muscle of his shoulder, dragging up through Dorian’s tension until he unbends just slightly. It’s clearly a great effort. With a sigh, Dorian obliges and steps forward, turns back around.

The knots in Dorian’s back never loosen for long, but the Bull’s a worthy enough foe. He’s got strength and leverage on his side, and Dorian isn’t exactly gonna get that from anyone _but_  a Qunari -- maybe one of those Avvar bruisers, but the Bull’s not surrendering his position. It’s a moot point. He’s the one who gets to dig his thumbs in under the straps of Dorian’s leathers and hear that choked-off moan of pain and relief.

“I’m gonna take your weird shirt off,” the Bull says, so Dorian will know, and gets a jerked nod in response. This, too, he’s got practice with. The buckles that originally made no sense at all he releases now in order, the leather straps and padding falling readily away. Dorian shrugs it off to present his back. Obstacle removed, the Bull brings his hands to Dorian’s hips, fingers to hold him in place, thumbs to push into the knotted muscle at the base of his spine.

Like this, the Bull works slowly up. He’d worried the first few times about hurting Dorian, and kept his hands light, pausing whenever Dorian made displeased noises and modifying his approach to avoid them. The fourth time he tried, Dorian had groaned in disgust and pulled away. “You useless oaf,” Dorian had said, and the Bull had finally figured out that his noises had been in frustration, not pain. “If I wanted a pillow-fluffing I would have gone to Sera and had her throw some at at me!”

The fact he took some time getting used to is that Dorian might be smaller, but not nearly so much as is usually the case, and he’s sturdy. Mages usually like to go for the lithe and limber thing, but Dorian’s vain. He likes getting fucked rough, and he needs the same amount of power to wring the pain and the stiffness from his back and neck and shoulders. In the reverse situation, Dorian goes in elbows-first, so he obviously knows what he’s about.

By the time the Bull gets to the knots under Dorian’s shoulderblades, fingers tackling the ones under his armpits, Dorian’s already noticeably more relaxed. He allows his full weight to rest against the Bull and tips his head back to surrender that strain, too. “It’s completely unfair,” he says, “that you always know _exactly_  what will help.”

“Educated guess,” the Bull replies, and Dorian just laughs. There’s only shoulders up to the base of his skull left, and even with the Bull’s unhurried pace it only takes a few more minutes.

He pulls Dorian flush against him when he’s done, and his touch turns soft when he trails his hands up from stomach to clavicle. As intended, Dorian shivers. “You wanna talk about it now, big guy?” Dorian twists his head around to glare at him, or at least try to. The Bull can indulge it. “Or did you want another distraction first?”

“Just another old colleague I’d hoped not to see down south,” Dorian sighs. “No one I knew that well, thank the Maker. Mostly I’m just angry, how much potential goes wasted into the Venatori.”

The Bull runs his three-fingered hand through Dorian’s hair to bend him forward, to kiss his neck. Dorian hums and tips his head back again when the Bull pulls away. His smile, newly formed, twists wicked.

“Think I’ll take you up on that distraction now.”


	12. Krem/Lace Harding/Josephine Montilyet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lace Harding never really liked her nose.

Lace’s nose twitches, some kind of small allergy maybe, and she rubs it with a similarly small frown. It’s bad positioning, anyway; she’ll freckle first, but burning won’t follow too long after, and for once she has the luxury of choosing whether to sit in the shade. The only problem: she’d have to take her head off Josephine’s lap.

Presented with this dilemma, however, Josephine only laughs. “I could very easily move into the shade with you,” she says.

Krem, leaning over them on the back of the bench, snorts. “Can’t have your cute little nose burn _too_ bad.” When Lace looks up at him, he grins and tweaks it.

Reluctantly Lace sits up to allow Josephine to take the shaded end of bench, and places fingers where Krem had pinched. “I never liked my nose,” she says, though she’s long moved past the resentment of her girlhood. Much like the sunburn in the field, it simply made for another unpleasant constant to bear. Still, it’s a weird thing to feel insecure about now. But Krem has that long, sloping Tevinter nose, and Josephine’s hooks so prettily, and Lace has either the best or worst luck ever to see them so closely, so often.

“What, really?” Krem actually sounds taken aback. He’s got that thing about bodies, though, equal parts having learned to love his own and spending all that time with the Iron Bull, who in his own words “hasn’t met a body he didn’t like.” Lace had wondered if he’d just been calling her pretty in the name of casual flirting, but it had stopped being casual fairly quickly and, well, that says it all, doesn’t it.

Josephine, meanwhile, widens her eyes in what could almost be called alarm. “But it’s such a darling nose!” She strokes two fingers across Lace’s cheek and over her nose. “It suits you so terribly well.”

Then Lace has to cover her nose, this time on account of a blush bright as the sunburn she’s been trying to avoid. “I always people liked my face in spite of it,” she admits, though it sounds pretty silly when she says it out loud.

No one calls her silly, though. Josephine only bends to kiss her, soft as an Orlesian poppy, while Krem snorts again. “Shows what _you_ nose.” Groaning, Lace reaches up to punch him on the shoulder.


	13. Dorian Pavus/The Iron Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adoribull Prompt Sunday - Bull takes a blow to his bum knee during battle.

He doesn’t really remember what happened, after. Sensations and smells hang onto what he does retain – the sharp coolness of the barrier around him and the sudden rush of heat and the scent of blood and sweat and sand. The Bull knows he took a bad hit, but the pain didn’t bother to stick with him.

Shock, someone had said, something else that sticks out of the fog swamping his head. It seemed wrong when he heard. It still doesn’t sit right. Shock is something from… somewhere else. Sand and scrub and humid air. A pair of eyes set in a grey face, rage and violence.

Someone enters his blurred line of sight, dark and sturdy, elfroot in the air around them. The Bull opens his mouth and croaks rather than saying anything. But Stitches reaches his side and crouches in two smooth steps. His hand comes down as a weight on the Bull’s shoulder. His other hand holds out a waterskin, and the Bull takes it from him without a problem, just slowly. The water clears his throat but not his head.

“You’ve been awake the whole time,” Stitches says, each word precise, but the Bull doesn’t hear any kind of tension or worry. “No concussion, just bloodloss and a fairly traumatic blow to the knee. You were pretty woozy even before we started feeding you potions, and you know how magic healing can mess with your head.” The Bull can’t really focus on Stitches’ face, but it sounds like he’s smiling. “First time I’ve seen Pavus and Dalish collaborating on a single spell. Impressive, but unsettling. Still, they saved the knee.”

The Bull hacks out a wad of phlegm and spits into the bowl Stitches had dropped his hand to pick up. “Yeah,” the Bull says, “I’ll bet.”

Stitches chuckles. “It’s been a few hours, so the potion should start wearing off soon. Hard to say with the shock, but you bounce back pretty quick, Chief. I wouldn’t worry. Just keep drinking water. You’re good to fall asleep – honestly, I’d recommend it.” He moves back, fast enough to cause the Bull a sudden vertigo. “He’s all yours!” Stitches calls out the tent flap.

It’s not that the Bull’s vision clears at all, but he recognizes Dorian immediately all the same. Dorian flops down on his ass next to the cot and the crate that props the Bull up.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, and there’s no visual cues to interpret his silence. His fingers trail over the Bull’s good knee and back down again, and it could just as easily be an absent gesture as restrained worry or anger. In other situations, Dorian’s had both reactions. But he doesn’t  _feel_  tense.

“I guess I owe you and Dalish a pretty big thanks now,” the Bull offers, and his words slur together. Dorian’s hand stills for a moment, and then he brings it up to press against the side of the Bull’s face.

“You’ve guessed correctly,” Dorian replies, and his voice is light, too. “I accept nothing but fancy chocolates. You will, of course, feed them to me.”

He pulls the Bull’s face sideways to kiss, tipping forward as he leans in. It’s a gentle thing. At some point the Bull will have to ask Dorian if he’s all right, and fill the gaps in his own memory, but that can wait until he can string words together in complex sentences.

He leans into Dorian’s touch, turns only for a moment to clumsily brush Dorian’s fingers with his lips. “Course I will.”


	14. Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus - Trespasser spoilers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is having the courage to pick up where you last left off, even when things have changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heybulldawg asked for "a welcome home kiss." Who am I not to oblige?* Trespasser spoilers.
> 
> *especially if the man is fly &etc

Dorian has a cane, and the Bull hates how that’s the first thing he notices. Not the hair let fall to one side, halfway down Dorian’s back by now, and not the narrow-wrapped tunic and tight tailored breeches that Minrathian fashion has apparently blessed him with. Not the way he turns gold in the late afternoon sun. Not even the stucco walls of the villa, recently a dusty yellow.

The cane’s handle gleams with volcanic aurum to match Dorian’s staff, and probably serves a similar function as well. It nearly matches the rings of true gold on Dorian’s fingers, which probably had been a big sacrifice when he had the cane made. The cane itself had been carved of teak, planed to a smooth shine. A handsome instrument. Definitely a fashion piece as well, more suited to a man in his forties than the piercings that dot Dorian’s ears and nose. That’s his Dorian, though. Always rebelling some way or another.

It’s a nice cane. Dorian looks good with it. But he shouldn’t need it – he should have been safe.

_This is Tevinter_ , he’d said through the crystal hung on the Bull’s neck, making it tap against the dragon’s tooth in tiny vibrations.  _Safety doesn’t cross the border_. When the Bull had claimed otherwise – _I made it over, didn’t I?_  – Dorian had laughed, but the pain in it came through. He hadn’t made it over the border fast enough to keep Dorian safe. He nearly hadn’t made it over in time to save him.

Dorian probably should have sat to wait for him, but the Bull’s selfishly glad he didn’t. Something he’ll allow himself more often these days. If Dorian hadn’t been able to stand to meet him… well. That hadn’t been the case. No use getting upset about it.

“Thought you were supposed to take it easy!” the Bull calls, breaking into a jog up the rest of the road. He doesn’t miss the look of disgust that crosses Dorian’s face.

“I’m safeguarding my health,” Dorian replies, just loud enough to be heard over the Bull’s boots impacting the road’s loose stone. “A few twinges, it turns out,  are infinitely preferable to accidental self-immolation, and today I found myself incapable of—”

The Bull crosses the last few yards between them, dropping his packs to the ground in a heap, and tips Dorian’s face up with dusty fingers to kiss. It’s too rushed. He misses the first time, only finding the corner of Dorian’s lips. When he succeeds on the second try Dorian smiles against his mouth, and kisses back, and for once doesn’t even pretend to protest when the Bull hoists him up.

“You’re about to be incapable of leaving your bed,” the Bull finishes for him, when they break only inches apart. “It’ll be okay. I’ll be there too.”

Like most of what they say offhand, something more serious gets in underneath. Dorian laughs despite it. “Oh, I suppose I’ll allow it.” The usual routine; he puts together a pretty convincing glare, even with the way his eyes keep crinkling up. “But don’t you dare think I haven’t noticed your ploy to get me off my feet.”

Dutifully the Bull sighs in exaggerated resignation. “Got me again, kadan.”

His arms tighten without his permission, and Dorian’s face softens in response. He leans forward to kiss the Bull again with closed lips, and when he pulls away again he brings his empty hand up to cup the Bull’s jaw.

“It’s okay,” he says, quietly. “You’re here now.”


	15. Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's been in recovery for a while, but he's hit a rough patch. The Bull's just glad that "don't hook up with other people in the group" is a suggestion, not a rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: implied substance abuse, addiction.

IN CHARGE, the pamphlet said, in large Impact font. Well, it could have been worse. They might have used Comic Sans, or heaven forbid, Papyrus.

> PEER-BASED SUPPORT AND SOBER SOCIAL GROUP
> 
> RE _CHARGE_  YOUR RECOVERY AND TAKE BACK YOUR LIFE IN A SAFE,   
> CASUAL, AND SOBER SPACE. MONTHLY EVENTS. NO JUDGEMENT, NO  
> COMMITMENT, AND NO QUESTIONS ASKED. ALL ARE WELCOME.
> 
> REACH OUT AT HORNSUP@SKYHOLD.ORG

It would have been less intimidating had it been worded in a more professional manner, but Dorian had tried being more respectable. In a wholly unanticipated result, it had failed just as thoroughly as every other attempt at being a fine, upstanding citizen. The twelve-step program had him laughing his way out the auditorium, and more holistic group had been a bit too new-age for him – plus, it had taken place in an Andrastean chantry, and he’d seen the discomfort set in when he walked through the door. That wouldn’t do for anyone.

He rolled up the pamphlet lengthwise and absently began tapping it between thumb and forefinger. Nothing wrong with just going to see. Those two days before the start of the semester had made it clear that despite his oft-congratulated willpower and revulsion for the stuff, he had begun, disgustingly, to backslide. Going it alone, as Mae had yelled over the phone last week, wasn’t cutting it so much these days.

-

“New guy showing up today.”

The Bull looked up from the article he’d been considering printing out for the meeting later on. Might not bother. Rocky said he’d bring pizza, so maybe they’d just watch movies and shoot the shit this time. On the other hand—

“Word of mouth or pamphlet?” the Bull asked. Didn’t really matter, other than whether the guy knew anyone already or not. He minimized the internet window and spun around to face Krem directly.

Krem shrugged. “Didn’t say. Probably means pamphlet, or his doctor recommended us. Didn’t really say anything other than asking when the next meeting was and where.”

That wasn’t surprising. A lot of people didn’t want to disclose anything until they knew the group. The Bull dug into his wallet for a twenty. “Tell you what,” he said, handing it over, “you go buy some soda and the fizzy water Dalish likes, I’ll figure out a quick discussion topic.”

“Can’t believe this. You finally cough up some money and I have to spend it all.” Still, Krem laughed. It was an old joke. “One of these you’re gonna have to put me on payroll.”

“Remember to clock back in!” the Bull called after him as he walked out. Krem stuck his fingers up without bothering to look back.

The article, something about the idea of addictive personality being less influential that situational tendency, looked kind of heavy for a first-timer; usually you wanted to keep it light and accessible, so they’d feel more comfortable contributing if they wanted to talk. Nature versus nurture always got a bit heated. Keep it to a question, then. Something about interacting with people who never got into the hard stuff, maybe, everyone had something to say about that. Well, other than Grim, who didn’t do verbal talk.

The front door opened and, after a short pause, shut again with a click. Krem wouldn’t be back yet, and the footsteps on the hardwood weren’t nearly heavy enough for him, anyway. More precise, too. The Bull turned off the computer screen and stood up to leave the office.

In order of reaction: this had to be the new guy, he looked older than most of the others, he was definitely another ‘Vint, and  _hot damn_.

“Hey there,” the Bull called, walking forward with a hand extended – make it obvious he was going for a handshake – and the new guy turned around and promptly did a very inelegant double-take.

“You must be joking,” he said, but it sounded less like it was addressed to the Bull and more to the universe in general. He recovered quickly to a politely distant expression and shook the Bull’s hand, crisply. The Bull made sure to let go promptly after the second shake.

He smiled, and the new guy inclined his head. “Welcome to the Skyhold Centre,” the Bull said. “You can call me Bull. You here for the Tuesday afternoon group? I’ll be facilitating.”

“I am.” The new guy’s mouth twisted then, probably going for disgust but not really making it past holding in a laugh. “I shouldn’t be surprised. ‘Bull.’ Really.”

The Bull winked, and saw real outrage then. This guy could be an actor, the way he used his whole face to express himself. “Hey,” said the Bull, and riling up a new group member was probably unprofessional, but—“Everyone’s thinking it already. No point making it awkward.” He grinned at the eyeroll he got for it. “So what do I call you?”

Hesitation, before a lift of the chin. “Dorian.”

“Nice to meet you, Dorian,” the Bull said, understatement of the age. “Good to have you with us.”

Even better to have _you_ , he didn’t say, but damn if he didn’t think it.


End file.
